From outside, the space appears vacant, uninhabited, abandoned. A thick layer of whiting, unevenly applied, covers the windows, through which we catch glimpses of color. It’s an invitation to enter. Ambiance “everything must go,” keys beneath the door, “under construction.”
Entering, we are greeted by lounge music, emanating from an outmoded TV set and highlighting a kind of Viallat; we don’t know if we should admire it, from the vantage point of a pile of anthropomorphized sacks, or if we should turn away, asking the Lord to bless support-surface. Assumed nonchalance. Humorous poetry. Several sculptures are placed here and there, more or less visible, discarded in corners, as if the workers had left their rags and spray bottles lying about. Simple and poetic gestures— “land art” meets supermarket. Then a brief musical break with a portable CD player: outdated progress, archaic technology.
A lavatory smell beckons us forward. Under cold white neons, as if drying in the sun, hang two panels of silk, dirtied by hand, asking us what is “high” and what is “low”. We walk through primary sounds that wink slyly to fluorescent circles imitating signals like those one sees on the roadside, and we no longer know how to differentiate true from false. It’s a call to idleness, to reverie. Casually strolling to find, with a sudden, sharp glance, the details of a forgotten architecture, then stretching out from there.